I am floating upward through the murky underwater of sleep. Light pierces the surface, forcing my eyes open. The first thing I notice is motion. Blurs of shadow and light are rushing by me, green and gray and brown. My eyes and brain struggle to grasp or place them. My cheek is pressed against cool glass and a tight ache has spread down my neck to my right shoulder and is settling into the space between my shoulder blades. The air smells stale, full of vague food aromas, a sharp chemical scent, and sweat, unmistakable but also unfamiliar. Squeezing my eyes closed, I try to quiet and focus my senses. Inhaling long and deep, I arc and then straighten my spine. Inhale. Count to five. Exhale.
Uninvited, Jacob’s face flashes into my memory. We’re in Burlington - Church Street - and he’s sitting across from me in our regular booth at Joe’s, his eyes avoiding mine as he says my name for the last time.
“So then… I guess that’s it, Jules. You know this isn’t how I wanted to do this, but I just, I can’t…” I don’t fill the space of his pause. He waits a beat, still avoiding eye contact, sighs, and goes on, “I guess… Well, I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore. And I can’t keep dragging it out. This has to be over; I have to move on. You know where to find me if things change… If you change.”
I feel my eyes and throat burning now like they did when he slid the twenty under my coffee mug and edged out of our booth. I couldn’t force sound from my throat, couldn’t ask him, again, to wait - just one more try, just stop talking and wrap me in those solid arms and remind me how it felt when we were still new. I had been useless, staring at him, then at the grounds at the bottom of my mug, saying nothing.
And that’s the last thing I remember. Literally. Nothing between then and now. I have no idea how or why I am here… Where? Rubbing my temples, I open my eyes. Okay… This is a bus. I am on a bus… A moving bus. Maybe a Greyhound? Okay. I start cataloging my surroundings.
The bus is only about a third full, and it is quiet. I am in the very back row, just in front of the bathroom, which places the chemical odor. I can’t see the driver’s face in the mirror at the front, can’t find any identifying company logo or route indicator. Most people are dozing, or have their heads bent over books or phones. Someone a few rows ahead of me seems to be humming something, breathy and low. Maybe country or gospel music - it sounds familiar and sweet, oddly reassuring. With so many open seats, I’m surprised to realize that the one to my left is occupied. The middle-aged man has earbuds in, his head tilted back and eyes closed, hands folded in his lap. He is wearing a subtle navy and maroon sweater and faded brown pants. He seems unobtrusive, probably polite. Fine.
I shift my focus out the window, trying to find clues in the scenery. Everything is flat. The unfamiliar blurs of shapes and colors have cohered into exit signs, broad, low barns, scorched fields, and generic Midwestern scenery. Midwest… If I am here - how long has it been since I was with Jacob in Vermont? Panic is creeping from my stomach up my throat, and I taste something bitter in the back of my mouth. Quickly, I slide my hands along my hips, looking for the phone that should be in my pocket. It’s not. But my hand comes away damp and gritty. There are sprays of -what… mud?- arcing along my right side, from the ripped knee of my jeans to mid-way up my gray t-shirt. I stare at the brown stains on my palm and fingertips. What…?
The man to my left is stirring, and as I turn toward him, he greets me with an expressionless gaze. He pulls something from his back pocket and pushes it over the armrest at me without breaking eye contact.
“Welcome back, kid. You looking for this?” His voice is flat and unhurried, friendly enough to make it seem almost normal that he is handing me my own phone. As I grab for it, disgust flashes across his face, replaced almost immediately by a blank, neutral expression. The slim rectangle is still warm from his pocket and feels light. I press the power button rapidly (turn on, turn on, turn on) before flipping the phone over in my palm to see an empty socket where the battery should be. I look up. He is smiling.
The bitter taste in my throat surges, and I manage to croak out a hoarse “toilet” before scrambling and clawing my way over his lap, landing hard on my knees in the narrow bus aisle. My stomach is churning; harsh, burning liquid floods my throat as I reach for the latch on the thin sliding door. I yank myself through the narrow opening, throwing myself over the metal basin as the wave gushes up and out, and everything goes black.
I wake again, weak and shaky on the bathroom floor, skin clammy, my left leg angled halfway out the open door. Alarmed murmurs are swirling over seat backs and across aisles. Forcing myself to stand, I wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand, and steady myself against the flimsy aluminum door jamb. Curious heads swivel away, show over. The man is still watching me, head cocked, with detached amusement.
“You done?”
My response comes out short and raspy. “Who the fuck are you?”
He stands, calmly gesturing to the seat next to him. Exhausted and seeing few options, I move toward my seat, keeping my eyes locked on him as my body brushes against his. He swiftly shifts his weight to lean into me, pinning me against the back of the empty seat in front of us, his breathy whisper slow and warm against my ear, “I am Harry Turner and, more importantly, I am the man who saved your shitty, worthless life.”
Every muscle in my body freezes. His heat pulses around me, emanating from his thighs, arms, chest. But as my mind begins to spin into a tangle of panic, the bus lurches and jolts to a jarring stop, and the man - Harry - is taken by surprise when I shoot my elbow sharply into his side, knocking him back into the seat, and launch myself into the aisle, hurtling toward the front of the bus.
Passengers are stuffing books and devices back into purses and totes, tugging on coats, and forming a line to exit the bus. I dodge an elderly woman heaving a threadbare garment bag over her shoulder, and squeeze in front of a teenager and her brother who are arguing over who called “shotgun” first. There are only a handful of passengers between me and the exit now, and I strain to get a glimpse over their heads and out the bus windshield. We are at an interstate rest stop; the beige building where the driver is letting us out advertises the expected handful of fast food and convenience stores. I glance back over my shoulder. Harry is making his way up the aisle, glowering, but my surprise attack has given me enough of a head start that we are now separated by a good twenty people or so, most of them still jostling bags out of their seats and elbowing their way into line.
And then I am moving down the steps and into biting cold fresh air. My thin, damp t-shirt seems to be clinging to my body for warmth. I move quickly toward the rest stop entrance, weaving around passengers to get through the doors - I need to disappear into the bustling travel hub before Harry can follow me. My ears are ringing, heart pounding, and I slip through the double doors, sandwiched between a laughing family in matching parkas and an older couple with their arms interlocked, the husband leaning heavily on his cane.
“Oh, my dear, why aren’t you wearing a coat? You’ll catch your death!” The woman’s shrill voice trails after me as I jog to the left, bumping my way through the long line at the Starbucks kiosk, and beeline toward the travel center shop. The woman is right. It is definitely below freezing outside, but I will also need to change my clothing to help camouflage me in this crowd of tourists. I feel exposed and vulnerable. Harry will spot me in a second - my matted blonde hair and dirty, torn clothes stick out like crazy, and the way I keep darting around these slow-moving, road-weary travelers will just draw his eye right to me. I can't hide here. Kiosks, small stores, and food counters all open into a shared food court style seating area, sight lines interrupted only by the information displays placed near each entrance, advertising local attractions. I try to will myself invisible as I make my way along the edge of the central room, and into a fluorescent-lit, cluttered travel shop. Ducking down between racks of tourist tees and postcards, I take a quick survey of the crowd milling through the open central area. I don’t see Harry yet, but the sinking feeling in my gut tells me he has to be here somewhere, waiting.
From my crouched position, I spot a stack of folded thick black hoodies on a low shelf a few feet to my left. At the check-out, the clerk has his back turned to his register, absentmindedly scrolling on his phone, facing toward me but completely absorbed by whatever is on his screen. I scan my surroundings again - there is a sign for women’s restrooms pointing down a hallway, maybe thirty yards away. My heart leaps, until I realize that is almost definitely the first place Harry will look for me. Keeping a careful eye on the shop's open frontage, I wait in my hiding spot until a middle-aged woman and her small son approach the clerk, arms laden with several bags of chips, candy, and entertainment magazines. The boy stands on tiptoe to slide a can of soda over the counter, and as the clerk turns to begin scanning the items, I slip toward the hoodies, grab the first one my hand lands on, roll it tightly and squeeze it between my arm and the side of my body. I walk calmly but quickly toward the front of the store, pausing only to tuck a gray knit hat into the crook of my arm with the sweatshirt. The boy begins whining loudly to his mother - something about pizza - but before I hear her response, I tug the tags off my prizes and duck around a corner, out of the shop and again in the midst of the tourist crowd.
A few paces away from the shop, I pull the cap down over my head, twisting and tucking my shoulder-length hair up inside its thick band. I am about to raise the sweatshirt over my head when I spot him, or the back of him. Harry is standing in the center of the rest stop, his attention jumping from one group of people to the next, intently searching. His stature is confident and relaxed; he could be any vacation dad, looking for his wife and kids in the fast food lines. I side-step behind one of the tourist brochure displays and hurriedly pull the sweatshirt over my clothing. It is a men’s large and hangs loose past my hips. The front is emblazoned with bold red and white lettering: “Buckeyes.” A fuzzy memory, the smell of fall leaves, beer and pretzels, "O-H...I-O"... No time. I move out from behind the display, my head down, and steal a glance toward Harry. Except he is not there. I suck in a sharp breath and spin on my heel toward an exit, my hand tugging at the band of the hat, shielding my face. No, not the one we came in. Beyond another double glass doorway, hulking semis are parked in neat diagonal lines across an endless parking lot.
I reach out toward the door's push-bar and hear the thud-thud of fast footsteps approaching behind me. I brace myself and push quickly through both sets of doors, into a strong blast of cold wind, nearly knocking the breath from my chest. No time. Hugging the baggy sweatshirt sleeves around myself, I break into a jog, and then I am full-out running over the asphalt toward the rows of trucks, my sneaker soles slapping hard against the ground, sending sharp jolts through my body with each step. I leap to the right as a rusting minivan blasting Aerosmith swerves to avoid slamming into me, blaring its horn, the driver shouting something unintelligible through a closed and foggy window. I look over my shoulder, sure that Harry must be at my heels. Instead, back at the entryway, amid the coming and going foot traffic, I see the apathetic travel store clerk looking straight at me, slack-jawed, with the white clothing tags clutched in his hand. He looks perplexed, weighing the pros and cons of pursuit. Another icy gust of wind whips cords of limp, shaggy hair over his forehead and eyes, and he shivers, pockets the tags, and heads back into the rest stop building. I have already resumed my flight toward the semis and away from… What? From Harry, at least. His menacing whispers ricochet through my mind. I am the man who saved your life... Had he... and why? I zigzag between the big rigs, putting more distance and visual blocks between myself and the rest area entrance, the pounding in my ears softening, replaced with an insistent loop of questions playing over and over.
Comments
Post a Comment